


hold on to your heart

by strictlybecca



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Crucifixion, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Chronological, Not Really Character Death, Present Tense, Spoilers for War of the Damned, blanket capes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strictlybecca/pseuds/strictlybecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am a free man,” Nasir snarls, “And I may do as I choose. And if I choose to follow you on your fool’s errand into death, then so be it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on to your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistersusans](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mistersusans).



> This fic is for tam, a year and a half in the making. It was originally an entry for the Sparty Reverse Big Bang 2013, in response to tam's incredible art [here](http://mistersusans.tumblr.com/post/54543099370/my-prompt-for-the-sparty-rbb-do-you-think-i-put) that you should all go look at. And then terrible things happened and I never finished and this languished - and finally, finally, finally, it is complete. This fic survived all this time because of my love for tam and our collective love of blanket capes.
> 
> Please check the endnotes if you are worried about any of the tags or the rating on the fic, all of the warnings are down there. 
> 
> Please note, there are MAJOR spoilers for the end of Spartacus: War of the Damned, so if you do not want to be spoiled for a significant portion of the Nagron storyline of WotD (although obviously somewhat altered by the events of this fic), then please read no further!
> 
> This fic is titled after a lyric in a song by Of Monsters and Men, called 'Your Bones.'

**i.**

They have tossed Agron’s lifeless body to him like rotten meat to carrion birds, like dinner to a wild dog. By their jeers and laughter and the sick, silent patience in their eyes, Nasir knows they expect him to weep, to cry the hoarse, gasping sobs of a senseless, grieving widow. They want a show, a new spectacle of not only blood on the sands, but tears.

It gives Nasir the very greatest pleasure to know that they will find no such entertainment with him.

“This vermin is what Spartacus has sent to bring the destruction of Rome? How pathetic,” A voice sneers from the crowd that watches them from several paces back – Nasir imagines snapping at any hand that draws too close, his teeth closing down around flesh and sinew and blood. The taste would be sweet and sharp and cloying, as if tongue were pressed to blade to taste. Nasir wishes desperately for one of the Romans – any of them – to risk a hand for a taunt. Little would delight Nasir more than the taste of Roman blood again on his lips.

They want Nasir to lash out, to snarl and pace his boundless cage like a wounded animal – like the wild dog they see in him. Nasir bites back the venom that soaks his tongue, the words that burn to tear themselves from his throat, the threats and promises of death he holds to his heart. Restraint binds him and instead he sits, watching the crowd with careful, hollow eyes. _Their deaths will not be swift,_ Nasir swears to himself. _They will suffer. They will beg and beg for mercy and death before you are through and even then, you will not grant it._

They grow bored of taunts and leave Nasir to his chains, to the shadow of the crucifix burning lines into his skin, to the dirt in the creases of Agron’s swollen eyes that Nasir’s hands are too dirty to wipe away, to the sorrow, to the fury, to the shame.

Nasir allows himself the weakness of dragging Agron close to him, of carefully, clumsily, drawing the bloody and battered body to his chest to hold. He allows himself to press a simple, dry kiss to the crown of Agron’s head, to squeeze broken fingers against broad and bruised shoulders, clutching tightly. He allows himself this one thing.

For his failure, he does not deserve anything more.

 

 

**ii.**

When Agron learns Nasir is joining the army following Crixus, he seeks him out immediately. Even the familiar sight of Nasir loading a cart with supplies does not diminish the fury and terror in his heart, nor the desperate, clawing sense that what he holds most dear draws yet further and further from him.

“Nasir,” Agron snaps, his fear turning his tone sour and harsh. “They say you join Crixus, that you plan on marching with-”

“They,” Nasir says calmly, not turning from his work, sparing no glance for Agron, who feels as if he may shake right out of his skin, as if his flesh might crawl off his bones in desperation. “They, whoever _they_ may be, tell the truth.”

“You cannot-” Agron begins – but that is enough to draw the blaze of Nasir’s ire, the fire in his eyes so fierce that Agron must force himself not to take a step backward.

“I am a free man,” Nasir snarls, “And I may do as I choose. And if I choose to follow you on your fool’s errand into death, then so be it. You have doomed us both. There are no words or gentle touches that may sway me from my choice. Leave me.”

Nasir has always known the places that Agron is most vulnerable. It is an instinct he has always had from the very start, though it was not long before he was their protector, the first to close hand over the gaping wound in Agron’s chest known as Duro. He was the first to begin to redraw the lines in the sand and rebuild Agron’s walls – though with Nasir inside this time.

But not now. He is too furious to check his strikes, too hurt to do little more than lash out with deadly accuracy. Agron can name nothing he wants less than Nasir’s death – the thought haunts him with every step and this Nasir knows.

“Please,” Agron tries, his tone uncertain, pleading, not sure of what he begs for except the knowledge that Nasir will live. _Please, let him live. Please, listen to me. Please, do not follow. Please, leave me to die alone._

But no matter what words Agron speaks, Nasir will not acknowledge him again.

 

 

**iii.**

Nasir is pliant and warm and beaming up at him and Agron knows it is nearing the hour they should take to their bed. As reluctant as he is to leave behind a bellowing Saxa and Lugo, who are mangling the words to a drinking song that Agron could hum in his sleep, he is even more reluctant to let the others glimpse this piece of Nasir that Agron would prefer to hoard entirely for himself. This night in Spartacus’ camp has been full of carousing and laughter and something solid and content that settles in Agron’s belly – these nights are not the grand battles that stories will tell of for years to come, but they are what Agron will carry with him until the end.

Nasir is pressed up to Agron’s side, half full cup dangling dangerously from loose fingers. Agron rescues it for the second time in as many moments and decides not to return it just yet. Nasir does not notice, which is Agron’s final sign that his heart is satisfactorily warmed by the new wine. “To our bed?” Agron murmurs softly to the top of Nasir’s head, arm settled heavily around Nasir’s waist. Nasir had curled into him nearly a whole cup of wine earlier and Agron had settled in quite happily to stay just where he was.

“Bed,” Nasir finally murmurs, inching up on to his toes to press a warm, wet kiss to the corner of Agron’s mouth. He draws away slowly, eyes dark and pleased in the dim light of the setting sun. “Come,” he says, tugging Agron’s hand in his own, “Follow me.”

There is little else in the world Agron would ever want to do and so he follows, hand curled in Nasir’s, letting the dark of the camp swallow them up and the light of their tent draw them in.

 

 

**iv.**

Nasir remains at the very end of the long column of carts and horses and men and women that march with Crixus and Naevia and Agron. Agron spends the first few hours of travel ignoring the near constant urge to find him, to find the words that will deliver understanding, that will find forgiveness - to somehow explain the terror he feels deep in his chest at the idea that he will witness Nasir’s last breath.

“Go to him,” Naevia says dismissively, “You are of no use at the front.” Agron opens his mouth to argue, but she pins a stare on him and he relents and obeys – as best he can. Instead of traversing the long line of trudging army, he waits until he can see the very last of the column of travelers and Nasir’s spear and bowed head comes into view.

“Nasir,” he calls, and wades through the other soldiers Nasir walks with. There is little doubt as to why he comes to Nasir and so they are left on their own within mere moments, the rest of the crowd drawing further away from them.

“Agron,” Nasir replies in the tone that Agron hates – so even and empty and with nothing to tell Agron where to tread next, which direction to turn in order to make amends. Agron looks at him for a long moment and Nasir must sense his thoughts because he allows, “You should be at the front.”

“I go where need bids me,” Agron counters firmly, “And Naevia,” he admits, if only to test the waters between he and Nasir. When Nasir’s lips quirk up into a mild smile, disused and dusty, Agron’s ribs loosen in his chest a small bit. “Nasir,” he begins, already hearing the catch in his voice, already feeling his heart begin to thud loudly in his ears – he must not fail in this. Nasir _must_ decide to turn back, to return to Spartacus. It is the only way.

“I stand with you in all things,” Nasir says, an echo from that very first fight, when Nasir tore from him in a fury, when he spat insults in his disappointment and confusion, when Agron had hoped that despite his words that Nasir would come to see sense. That he would come to realize that going with Spartacus towards freedom, towards what he had worked so hard to find, would be the only true path for him. “And if you walk towards death, I do as well.”

“That is not what is desired,” Agron bites out in frustration, free hand digging into his hair and gripping tightly. “Your safety, your happiness – they cannot be found on the battlefield, only far from it with Spartacus and the others.”

“Little consideration was given to what I wanted then,” Nasir snaps, “It seems only fair you are so slighted in return. I do not want a life parted from your side, and yet you blindly seek to give me just that. You are a fool, Agron - a selfish, childish fool.”

“Your loss could not be borne,” Agron hisses, stooping, desperate to catch Nasir’s eyes with his own. “Alive and far from me, so be it – but you are all that keeps heart beating and it is you who gives cause to raise sword, to fight, to live.”

Nasir spits a laugh, “Live?” he snarls, “You say I give you cause to live and yet all you do is seek death. And how little you must believe in the faithfulness of my heart if you believe that living a life far from your side is the path I must tread. Could you not see a life with me? By my side?” Nasir hisses, pain writ in the lines of his face and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “You so desperately seek your own end, as if you too were not offered the chance to live, to go with Spartacus and the others, to have all the things you wished to give me.”

“Battle is all I know,” Agron tries weakly, but Nasir is shaking his head, his face rough with sorrow and exhaustion. Nasir’s eyes are shuttered now and Agron can no longer read his expression – he can feel Nasir pulling away even further, though he does not move an inch.

“This I know,” Nasir murmurs. “And I would not stop you, simply stand by your side. As I choose to do now.”

“Nasir,” Agron tries, knowing somehow that this will be his last chance. “Nasir, you are my heart, you are all that holds meaning –”

Nasir holds up a hand, freezing the words in Agron’s throat. There is a tired, dull smile in response. “And you hold my heart as well,” Nasir says quietly, “but it feels as if you begin to loosen fingers.” When Nasir shoulders his spear again and steps forward, Agron does not follow.

 

 

**iv.**

There is a low rumble in Agron’s bones, a slick and sleepy languid hum that has settled in deeply as he and Nasir lay curled together, the sweat drying on their bodies, the pleasure still singing sharply beneath their skin. Agron’s head is pillowed against Nasir’s chest, Nasir’s fingertips trailing through Agron’s hair, sending sweet shivers down Agron’s spine as they murmur quietly to one another in the stillness of the night. They tell stories of the homes they remember and invent tales for the memories they have forgotten. They tell the stories of their gods and whisper treasonous thoughts of them against the other’s lips. In this room, in each other’s arms, not even the gods can touch them.

“And it is Charon’s responsibility to ferry those who have died across the river,” Nasir is saying quietly, the breath from his lips warm and gentle against Agron’s skin.

“All those who have died?” Agron asks, furrowing his brows even as he nuzzles absentmindedly at the soft skin beneath his cheek. “No matter how they have died?” Nasir hums his agreement, letting the hand that is carding through Agron’s hair settle for a moment at the base of Agron’s neck and scratch there firmly. Agron has to tuck a pleasurable groan into the skin of Nasir’s chest, fingertips twitching against Nasir’s hip.

“All those who have died must cross the River Styx,” Nasir continues, telling the story of the Roman gods that have been his for as long as he can remember. There may have been gods before them, less Roman than Syrian, though if Nasir concentrates all he can recall is the scent of incense and a larger hand wrapped around his own, worn and weathered and soft. “Though if they cannot pay the passage, then they must stay on the far bank of the river for all time.”

“How does one pay?” Agron asks curiously, lifting his head to catch Nasir’s eyes. Nasir’s fingertips on his free hand trace Agron’s lower lip and the dark of Nasir’s eyes seems to deepen as his gaze follows the trail of his fingers.

“You have seen others slip coins between the teeth of the fallen?” Nasir asks, still trailing his fingertips across Agron’s face, the slope of his nose, the curve of his brow - gentle and heated and distracting. When Agron nods, eyes not leaving Nasir’s, Nasir’s lips twist into a slight smile. “Well, that is to ensure that they will have coins with them when they wake beside the Styx.”

“In my village, the priests say there is a hall,” Agron says, a moment later, after a long silence, “for warriors who have died. Woden welcomes them as they arrive, those who have died on the battlefield – there is a great table and a great feast.” He feels more than sees the smile form on Nasir’s lips and Agron huffs a gentle laugh against his skin. “Yes, there is food and drink and great stories to be told – but only for those who die in battle.” There is a bittersweet silence that follows and Nasir knows they are both thinking of their own ends, of seeing those who have gone before, of their separate paths to the afterlife.

Nasir’s fingertips tense against Agron’s cheek before they relax and trace the gentle line of Agron’s jaw. Agron catches a fingertip with his lips, pressing a soft kiss there and Nasir’s smile is warm and intimate, one Agron has only seen like this – when they are alone and pressed together, no space even for a thought to slip between them. “I - I like this Woden’s realm,” Nasir whispers against the crown of Agron’s head, “This feasting and singing at the end of a life, to be greeted by those we have lost.” Agron listens to a single beat of Nasir’s heart before Nasir speaks again. “Would he allow a Syrian turned Roman turned rebel join the feast?” Nasir smiles to show his jest, but there is an intensity that belies his words and causes Agron to grasp Nasir to him tightly.

“You are a great warrior,” Agron says fiercely, eyes bright. “Woden will welcome you as he welcomes all with strength and courage – and if not, then fuck the gods.” Nasir chokes out a laugh, slipping down the bed coverings to settle his forehead against Agron’s, whose dimples appear even at the slightest hint of his grin. “Fuck the gods,” he repeats, “There are none who can part us. Whether I must sail with Charon or whether we will feast at Woden’s table, none will live who wish to separate us.”

It is easy in this place to believe Agron’s words, to laugh and press close and kiss away deep seated worries of the consequences of the lives they lead, the journey they take. It is all too easy to whisper these heresies, to feel drunk on love and with power and certainty, to know that no god could come between them. Nasir slips closer, until the heat of Agron’s skin and the warmth of Agron’s touch are all he knows, thoughts of gods and rivers and feasts drawn right from his head.

 

 

**v.**

Nasir is not beside Agron when he is stabbed.

At battle’s start they stood within arm’s reach of each other. They were not capable of being apart in battle, though neither found the words that could cross the chasm of silence between them. Before Crixus called the charge though, Nasir could feel the familiar warmth of Agron’s hand pressed tightly to his shoulder.

When the battle begins, Nasir is drawn away by a trio of Roman soldiers who seem intent on baiting him until he strikes foolishly. Nasir has endless practice drawing deeply from his wells of patience and so it is little work to bide his time and wait until they draw too close to his spear’s reach. They are finished off only moments later and Nasir is breathing hard and scanning the field for Agron’s tall form when he hears a deep bellow, a sound of agonizing pain that Nasir knows can only be the voice of one man.

Nasir hardly recognizes the answering noise that tears from his throat, hardly remembers the men he must have slaughtered to make it to Agron’s side before the next wave of soldiers crashes upon them both. All he recalls is the hot gush of blood against his hands as he presses them to Agron’s side, the slip of the spear between his bloody fingers as he tries to fend off the Romans who sense the moment of weakness, the realization that the battle is over and they have lost.

They tear him, screaming, from Agron’s side, before fists batter down on his face and everything is swallowed in darkness.

 

 

**vi.**

Nasir is stoically attempting to pretend that the cold has not yet frozen his blood, but Agron recognizes the look on his face as one of a man less than satisfied with his current lot in life. He ducks into their tent briefly before starting towards Nasir’s place at the shared guard’s fire with another blanket tucked under his arm.

Nasir sends him a sharp glare once he catches sight of him and Agron ignores it deftly, knowing Nasir expected him to head directly for their bed after the end of his meeting with Spartacus. Agron has been awake longer than most in the camp due to a disastrous scouting trip and Nasir had attempted to wheedle a promise from Agron that he would sleep when there was time. “What has brought you here?” Nasir demands, even as Agron crowds up behind him, choosing instead to share the warmth of Nasir’s body and the fire and pretend as if the man he loved was not currently attempting to pierce him with murderous stares.

The others on guard duty know better than to pay any attention to Nasir and Agron’s bickering, not if they want to escape their training with Nasir the next morning with anything less than bruised and battered ribs. The bottoms of their cups are suddenly fascinating.

“You appeared cold,” Agron mutters into the base of Nasir’s neck, his nose buried in the soft hair there. “I came to assist.”

“I will assist you to the afterlife if you do not move to our bed within moments,” Nasir threatens, but he does not attempt to remove Agron’s arms from around him.

“I come bearing a gift,” Agron says, not attempting to hide his smile as he tugs out the blanket and wraps it over Nasir’s shoulders, securing it in the shoulder guard Nasir has taken to wearing.

“You try patience,” Nasir says wearily, but his hand has wound itself in Agron’s cloak, tugging him closer. “The cold is painful but not impossible to survive. The same cannot be said of lack of sleep.”

“I sleep better beside you,” Agron murmurs softly, pressing in beside Nasir, who huffs.

“As my shift remains only half begun, you will be waiting for some time yet,” he retorts, pulling his new blanket closer around him and looking mildly less miserable as the next heart-shattering wave of cold air crashes into them.

“I will wait,” Agron says simply, curling an arm around Nasir, who glares at him fiercely for a long moment before heaving a sigh and giving in. Agron does not hide his smug grin.

“You fool,” Nasir murmurs affectionately, “Come sit closer to the fire. If you are to remain awake, you may as well not freeze.”

The other guards take up conversation like there has been no interruption, but there is no mention of Nasir’s hand tangled up in Agron’s – early training with Nasir in the morning looms close and they know better.

****vii.** **

Agron’s body is heavy in his arms, still warm from the fevered heat that took his senses from him at the very last, shouting incomprehensible words at any guards who dared near him on the cross. But Nasir’s hands tremble too much to take the pulse he knows is not there, to press solidly against the chest he knows will never rise again.

For long, torturous moments, the inconsolable rage Nasir feels threatens to burn him whole, the fire building somewhere deep in his stomach, gaining traction as it crawls through his lungs and heart and up his throat. The screams ache to tear out of him, pure rage and regret, wordless, for nothing in any language could bear the weight of his sorrow and his fury. The sounds themselves would crumble beneath his grief.

Just like his bones will. Just like his heart will.

 _Agron is gone,_ his mind says. And with him, all else.

Nasir does not surrender to the noise that burns to tear him apart from the inside in its desire to escape. He remains quiet, Agron’s body held in his arms.

The words will come later.

****viii.** **

Nasir dreams.

He dreams of falling, of darkness and light and twisting shapes that speak to something he cannot name, something deep and endless carved into his ribs and braided into his lungs. He dreams of soft clay between his fingers and something ancient writhing in unspeakable darkness, he dreams of seven doorways and a river of ink, of soot, of ash.

When the shapes form into something more solid, Nasir knows only that there is something scratching his throat, choking him. He heaves and heaves, lungs burning, until he feels three tiny coins tumble out of his lips, bright gold and mesmerizing. Nasir cannot look away and it takes him a long moment - a whole heartbeat - to understand that beneath his hands there is wet marsh.

Mud seeps between his fingers as they tighten on the ground. _Where am I?_ he wants to say, but no words leave his mouth. Instead the words echo in the air, in his mind.

He touches his throat with muddy hands, lost.

 _Have you come to pay your crossing?_ a voice says in that same way, vibrating the air though Nasir is sure he cannot hear them – he is simply remembering having heard them, like they have slipped into his mind while he was not paying attention.

 _My crossing?_ he asks and turns to see the river of ink, of pitch, flowing beside his feet, the current sluggish like a weary army trudging to battle.

 _Yes, little one,_ an amused voice murmurs. _The crossing that all men must make, in time. Have you come to pay your ferry?_

Nasir stares down at the coins clutched tight in his mud-caked fist and remembers.

He remembers the hot-cold of Agron’s body, the torn and ragged wounds in Agron’s hands, the aching, scorching sorrow and the silence. The terrible, perfect silence.

 _Not yet,_ Nasir murmurs, _I cannot cross just yet,_ though it is more of a soft brushing of his mind against the fog, a constantly twisting, shifting mass of faces and features that Nasir cannot bring himself to study too closely. _I seek one who may have crossed. A warrior._

_There have been many of those over the years, little one._

_He is different,_ Nasir’s thoughts flare fiercely. _He is mine._

Charon, the Ferryman, laughs, his mouth splitting open like a too ripe fruit, revealing a smile of too many teeth beyond a dark, dirty beard. Nasir tries to speak again, tries to make another demand but the dream twists sharply and then Nasir remembers no more.

****ix.** **

It is dark when Nasir’s eyes open again. The camp is quiet, fires lighting the guard stations, tents glowing dimly against the black of the night.

Agron’s body is still warm and Nasir wonders if night has fallen early, for it has been hours since the body was tossed to him and Agron’s body should have begun to cool beneath his hands. Nasir’s hands are no longer trembling, so he allows himself a last gathering of Agron to him, the dead weight of his body nearly impossible to maneuver, but Nasir manages it. The need to be near Agron at least once more is too strong.

Their foreheads press together and Nasir breathes in carefully, the sounds of the camp settling in for the night slipping away until it is just he and Agron, until there is a bright, clean moment of silence in Nasir’s head –

Which is shattered by the slightest breath against Nasir’s lips.

Nasir’s eyes fly open and he stares, unsteady and undone. His hands are clumsy as they scramble to pull Agron’s face to his, his lips to Nasir’s, certain that he is drunk on grief, that his own treacherous mind seeks to play tricks on his weary heart – but no. There it is, the faintest of breath, pushed from Agron’s lungs by the life that still yet lives within him.

“Fuck the gods,” Nasir whispers against Agron’s lips, his words heavy with the weight of tears and laughter, hushed against the still of the night around them. “Fuck them all.” And there in the night, there is joy where there was none before, and there is fear, and there is hope.

****x.** _epilogue_**

They return to Spartacus together, Agron’s arm slung over Nasir’s shoulder, both too weary to raise their heads from their trudging feet. It is miles and days before the prisoners are reunited with the rebel camp, the journey nearly too far for a much weakened Agron. Spartacus greets them as brothers, as sons – he draws them close and there are no tears, but there are words shared that Nasir holds dear and will forever.

There is some joy too, for Naevia, for although Crixus is lost she too thought Nasir had been taken from this world to the next. They embrace, Agron leaning on Spartacus, and Nasir holds her and remembers the way the love of a sister feels. They will grieve over Crixus together, in time, but for now they are together and that will have to be enough.

They are helped to their tent and Nasir is glad to see that it is not exactly the same as they left it. To return to an untouched bed and a pristine chest would seem too much like it all had never happened – and that was something Nasir was not sure he could stand, not knowing now what the battle had cost Agron, what it had nearly cost Nasir.

“I was a fool,” Agron says, in response to nothing, and it is not the first time Nasir has heard this. Their time at the Romans’ camp and then returning to Spartacus and the others was not spent solely in silence – there were stuttered words of apologies and forgiveness, and foolish moments where each stood furious with the other for even considering that they would need to be forgiven.

“You were a fool and I was stubborn,” Nasir reminds him, helping him to the soft bed roll, curling up beside him before Agron could even open his mouth to complain. “Neither of us is without fault.”

Agron’s mouth twists into a sad smile and Nasir knows what words lie unspoken between them. He understands without Agron telling him that there are still questions about what Agron believes Nasir deserves, that sending Nasir away was easier than dealing with those uncertainties, than dealing with the truth – that they have sworn themselves to one another in ways that can never be torn asunder. That they have wrapped their futures up so tightly in one another’s that there is no path that either can walk without the other.  
 _We will be warriors or we will be shepherds,_ Nasir had snapped at him during the long walk back to Spartacus’ camp from the Romans. _But whatever we will be, we will be together._

It is much for Agron to take in, that there is no future in which their destinies are not tied, that Nasir’s life has forever been in danger since the moment Agron stepped foot inside the house of his dominus so many seasons ago, that Nasir does not ever plan to leave his side – not for safety or pirates or for fields of his own to tend.

“Sleep now,” Nasir commands gently, drawing Agron’s scarred hands between his own. “You are here and I am by your side. There is time in the morning to speak of mistakes and foolishness. For now,” he pauses, Agron’s lips catching his in a quick brush of a kiss, forcing a smile onto his face. Agron still has many weeks of healing before him, and together they have many hours of conversations still to be had – but there is no denying Agron’s soft grin, his careful brush of fingertips against Nasir’s. Nasir kisses him back, fervently, happily. “For now,” he continues, when they break apart, “We are together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: There are references to Agron being stabbed in battle and crucified like he was in canon, as well as Nasir's intense grief as he believes Agron is dead for 90% of the fic. Nothing is overtly graphic, except Nasir's wish to bite/attack Romans if they get too close to him - but especially not when compared to the actual graphic nature of the show. It's all pretty tame, promise.
> 
> Also thank you to Jessie/[modernnature](http://archiveofourown.org/users/modernnature/pseuds/modernnature) for helping me out with some of the religion/gods stuff. History is very hard and I do not recommend it for the faint of heart. Fortunately, Jessie is a veritable lioness of courage and history and I love her a lot. Any historical mistakes you see are my own!


End file.
